When We're Dead
by Alien-Ariel
Summary: Navy brat turned BPRD special agent, Sidney Fairbanks finds herself delivered right into Section 51's palm; and maybe even the arms of its famous red inhabitant? HellboyxOC (Movie based, comic influences)
1. Sid Will Have to Shoot Some Pixies

**Pics on my profile.**

**Enjoy.**

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I hate pixies. Kind of in the same way I hate butterflies; they land on your arm and crawl around with those nasty little legs. Except, pixies can eat the flesh right off an arm. Some bedtime tales get made harsher, to instill morals in small children; others are already too harsh on their own, and end up as myths of wonder and beauty. Pixies are the latter: they aren't cute or sparkly, fluttering around on those stupid, gossamer wings all the stories like to say. They're ugly, evil little shits. And they look more like toothy aliens than fair-skinned women.

A lot of stuff about paranormal activity and mythic beings doesn't make sense. Like, the Loch Ness Monster: totally real; Bigfoot and the Yeti: false as all hell. Really, the more otherworldly something is, the more likely it is to have a grain of truth. Harpies yes; sphinxes no. And it's always the ugly ones that turn out to be real. Like pixies. Pixies are tomato-headed, spindly legged, ashen gray cousins of the faery, and have seen to their utter destruction. That's the typical, heartbreaking way of things in this field: everything can and will try to destroy the beauty in the world. It's the job of those that know better to protect what can be protected...

Gods I _hate _pixies.

"We know you hate pixies," someone is currently saying to me. The 'but' is sure to follow close behind, "_But_... we'll need your special skills on this mission."

"Telling me that I won't like the mission before I even sign up? Not the best sales tactic."

"Well-"

"Did you know a pixie can chew through your flesh, right down to the _bone _in _ten seconds_?" I plow on ahead, showing all signs of starting to preach my pixie-hating word, "I mean, that's like saying 'Hey, these guys need you to chop off your hand; you won't enjoy it at all and it's sure to hurt like fucking hell, but you've got the thinnest wrists, which makes you perfect!' It's like saying that."

There's a long moment of static over the intercom, "That went somewhere inappropriate, didn't it?"

"Like it or not," the person on the other end of the line continues uncomfortably, "You don't actually have a choice. Transfer's already been put through." I snort in as unladylike a fashion as possible. Typical for me. But then, this situation is typical for the Bureau.

"I'm not happy; rather, I'm even unhappier now than when we started this conversation." I say with a smooth, liquid kind of anger: like cashmere made of hate, "But I'm not going to give you a hard time, as you've obviously lost some terrible high-stakes game of draw-straws to be the one to deliver this news. So thank your maker that-"

"Transpo to the Newark branch arrives at sixteen-hundred hours. Be sure to pack everything. The Central Park infestation might take a while to clear out." The guy cut me off. The following silence signals the apparent end of our conversation.

"Nobody ever appreciates my humor." I say with a huff. Then, "Wait, _infestation?_"

* * *

I can't say I didn't go kicking and screaming, I'm not the dignified type; but I at least remembered my swear jar and kept that screaming G-rated. Whatever, I don't have so much pride that I won't call my handlers a bunch of buttheads.

And Tom Manning, the one personally facilitating my faster-than-light transfer to Newark, was the biggest butthead of them all. He had us travelling there in a limo as much for his perverted need to fell important as for the distance it allotted between us for the duration. I let slip a fair few jabs about a man's favorite measurement and just how well a vehicle like this compensates for it.

My primary handler, Maury, was quick to remind me of the dollar I'd lost off my paycheck for each act of insubordination. He's good like that. Always keeps track of my funds. I wasn't at all deterred; I was making Manning worry about the size of his dick all while being a dollar-less-than handsomely paid. If it weren't for the fact that I was speeding away from almost everyone I know and straight into a hungry hive of swarming pixie bastards, I'd be inclined to say it was an evening well spent.

As we entered the city, lit up only by the moonlight and buzzing neon signs, I lost my good humor. Even Maury's off-beat mindless humming couldn't cheer me up. By the time we rolled into Central Park my mood was about as dark as the shadowed canopies surrounding the three of us. A trail of glowing marker sticks led deep into the thick of the trees, and probably the thick of the nest.

"Come on, Maury." I said over my shoulder, completely ignoring the shivering Manning, "Let's go meet the new freak family."


	2. Sid Makes Pixie Dust

**Many thanks to Crystal-Wold-Guardian-967, ILoveReadingAndWriting, and BornToBeAWitch1989 for their lovely reviews. It's always so gratifying to hear the readership tell me in words how they think and feel about the story.  
**

**Again, pics of Sid and her style on my profile, under the _When We're Dead_ section of course.**

**Enjoy!**

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"Sidney Marietta Fairbanks: BPRD special agent, firearms and munitions expert, and damn fine piece of ass if I do say so myself." I introduced myself to the small clearing of agents. Seemingly everyone stopped and took notice of me. I swallowed the tiniest of lumps that had formed in the back of my throat, "Call me Sid." I added a little lamely, spinning my pistol in my right hand.

"A self-proclaimed 'hot piece of ass' that asks us to call her 'Sid'. I don't exactly like that." A deep baritone questioned me. The owner of this manly man of a voice stepped into the light and my mind lit up with the electricity of elated recognition.

Everyone in the BPRD knew of Hellboy, but not many got the chance to shoot pixies in the face beside his Samaritan. He leaned said legendary pistol against his shoulder and gave me the ol' up-and-down before turning to what appeared to be a fish-man ironically wearing a wetsuit.

"Who's the girl?" Hellboy asked. I made a noise and half-smiled on the left corner of my mouth.

"I'm pretty sure I made that pretty clear." I quipped, "And to clarify: I said 'fine', not 'hot'... Red Hot."

"Red Hot?" His tone was disapproving but his demeanor responded almost positively, "Most people just call me the first half."

"Well consider that my personal touch, then." I said with an overly exaggerated wink, "And besides, 'Fireball' sounds like a name for a dog." Understanding crossed Hellboy's face.

"Red Hot like the candy." He muttered apparently to himself. Neither of us said anything for the span of five seconds, so the small task force of mostly normal people around us went from watching the entertainment to BPRD business, which basically meant unloading enough ammunition to supply an army.

I wandered over to the chest Hellboy was picking through to case the case.

"I don't think my big ol' bullets are gonna play nice with that pea-shooter ya got there." He grumbled lowly at me and swatted my grabby hands away from an interesting assortment of hollowpoints. I shrugged and instead reached into my own personal supply, which Maury had wisely wheeled my way.

"A girl never goes anywhere without her purse." I answered Hellboy and fish-man's wandering glances. I loaded up a clip or twelve, cocked my gun, and said, "Let's go make some pixie dust."

* * *

Well we may not have made pixie dust, _exactly_, but we did explode those suckers into a fine grade of ash. By the time the sun started to rise over the misty horizon, somewhere behind all those gleaming skyscrapers, Hellboy, Abe and I had racked up quite the body count. I snapped off a shot at one final toothy target, and holstered my pistols with extra showmanship. The other two watched me for a moment longer before we all turned away from the oozing honeycomb-like hive and toward the light coming from the cave entrance.

"We'll let you guys burn that stinking heap down." HB said to the group of agents waiting for us out in the watery morning light. No complaints. That's a nice touch.

When I didn't stop alongside Maury to instead continue walking beside Red and Blue, the former gave me a less than contemplative but more than curious look.

"Got some questions rattling around in that handsome red head?" I spoke up with a genuine smile; I was rewarded with the friendliest look from him so far, but it still wasn't much to speak of.

"Sure do, Sweetness-"

"Sweetness, huh?" I stopped him about as soon as he'd started, "Well at least you got the first letter right."

"Ok, Special Agent _Sid_." HB started out again, but with a sarcastic inflection bestowed on my name, "So you can shoot straight, I won't go denying that, but to be anything more than one of those shmucks back there breathing in burning pixie fumes, you'd have to be more than what you look like."

"And what do I look like, _Red Hot_?" I countered quickly, keeping up the, what I assumed to be, playful banter.

"A cute little gun-wielding nutjob." He clarified, "That shoots straight."

"He has a point." Blue added briefly, looking at me with intrigue.

"Well, there's all those individually fantastic things you just mentioned..." I stalled for time to think of something clever, "And I can also fold a piece of paper more than seven times."

That surprisingly got a nice laugh; at least, one that seemed real enough to me. I'd need some confirmation.

"Look out, Blue." HB obviously said to us both, however, "I may just be starting to like this one."

Confirmation received.


	3. Sid Gets HB's Cats Fixed

**This chapter exists somewhere between the opening chapters and the main plot of the story (which follows the first movie's storyline)... Well, obviously. I mean, it's just a weird little idea that came to me and I built a chapter up around it to act as a transition. Also, I liked the title.**

**So anyway, don't take this chapter too seriously. It's supposed to just be a bit of silliness before the main story starts. And an excuse to slip in some backstory.**

**I'd appreciate some feedback, as always. :)**

**Enjoy!**

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I guess I had subconsciously known that I'd be staying with the Newark branch much longer than just my night of target practice in Central Park. I could never guess that my transfer was permanent, however. Like, set-in-stone permanent. Dig in your heels permanent. Make yourself a nice cozy nest and settle down permanent.

That last thought really made me anxious. Claustrophobic.

My dad had been in the navy and I'd lived the life of a military brat seemingly forever. My first memories are of riding my bike past the officers' houses on Captains' Row and boasting if my dad ranked higher than some other kid's parent. And my mom always told me that my first steps were down a marina dock, straight toward the edge; my dad caught me before I could fall. He's always caught me before I could fall. Terrifying early days of puberty: dad was there. Getting my heart broken for the first time ever: dad was there too; we were only at that base a few months, we got transferred when dad threatened to beat in the little cretin's face. And dad was there on the most harrowing day of my life, two years ago... but I don't want to talk about that.

I'd rather focus on watching the Price is Right with Red Hot right now. Well, the Price is Right along with about seven other programs. He refuses to watch tv anywhere but his room, so here we sit.

I can't say HB and I had become friends because I don't believe he knows the meaning of the word. Either that or he just has his own way to go about categorizing his relationships. We did however end up meeting up several times a week since I became a perpetual fixture here in Newark.

I'm like a piece of furniture in HB's life, and I don't quite know what room I belong in because I'm an arm chair but I want to be an end table; or I'm a weird color or something...

I don't even know where I was going with that metaphor. Analogy? Whatever.

I don't know where _I'm _even going. Probably nowhere, since I'm stuck in Newark until the fucking end of days. So I'll just sit here, misplaced arm chair that I am, and watch idiots bounce around a Drew Carey that looks like he wants nothing more than to end it all.

"I'd like to see Drew Carey go postal." I think out loud. Red Hot makes a noise through his beer can.

Time passes. People on the screen make foolish choices. It makes me feel an uncomfortable sense of fraternity. The navy-haired arm chair sitting beside HB opens her mouth again and absentmindedly asks how the other felt about their mission last night.

"Mermaids..." Red Hot starts a little wistfully, "Proof you can never trust a pretty face. I'm sure you can commiserate, huh Sweetness." The navy-haired arm chair turns a little red... Ok, that's enough of that silliness; it's starting to feel too real. _I _turn red.

He's kept calling me that name, kind of a play on the whole 'Red Hot as in the candy' thing; it always makes me blush a blistering shade of red. I can't get used to it. And by 'it' I mean both the name and that fact that it makes me feel like a schoolgirl again.

"That's your full week's worth of analysis, is it?" I ask lightheartedly while I attempt to recover.

"A lifetime's." He responds ever so smoothly, raising his eyebrows and taking a mammoth-sized sip from his beer can.

"I'd discourage the eleven AM beer if we hadn't already been up for hours." I mused, then quickly course corrected, "Then again, 'there's no wrong time for a beer.'" I quoted.

"Now you're learning." HB responded with a rare smirk.

"Cheers, Red Hot." I continued, holding up the glass of Jack Daniels next to me.

"Cheers, Sweetness." He echoed, this time with an even rarer smile. The clink of our drinks rang into the ensuing silence.

* * *

"I never like any of the people that make it to the showcase." I said the next day but in the exact same position on Red Hot's couch from twenty-four hours ago. Some hilljack spun 85 cents on the wheel and hooped and hollered his way over to the winner's spot.

"I mean, why couldn't old Gramma Blue-Hair there have won?" I wondered with the slightest indignation, "Fate is conspiring against those most deserving of good old out-of-the-blue, inexplicable luck... and rewarding the inbred masses instead." I sighed as the winner continued to gallop his way over to the showcase.

"You think too much." HB said with a swig from his third beer that morning and a belch, "Stop thinking so much."

"When we're dead." I replied off-handedly, intent on the showcases. First one couldn't be more than $25,000: it only had one vacation, and no sail boat. The latter would be in the second showcase. I told HB this, adding that I'd wager my second-best pistol on it. I wasn't wrong.

"Good thing you were right," He commented, "With only one pistol you'd only be half as good as you are."

"Just as good looking though." I cracked right back. I think the noise he made was a noise of agreement.

The show ended: a clean sweep for Billy Bob McFucks-His-Cousin. Drew couldn't suppress a massive sigh of relief as he closed with the customary advice of getting your pets' various baby-making parts fixed. I couldn't usually hear it over the counterintuitive whooping of all the people that hadn't won anything still in the audience; but today, surrounded by a veritable herd of cats, I noticed. I shivered, fretful for the first time in HB's room ever. I focused back on him, who had questioning eyes glinting back into my perplexed face.

"Are _any _of your cats fixed?" I asked him. A long pause.

"What?"

"Fixed." I repeated, a little dumbfounded by any other polite way to put it, "You know. Snip snip?" I threw manners out the window and pantomimed a pair of scissors with my fingers.

"What? _No_!" He barked rather incredulous with my crassness, moving a tomcat protectively behind his back and away from me.

"Well we need to get on that."

"No." He said. I gave him a look, "_No_." He enunciated with the verbal force of putting his foot down.

"But Drew Carey said to." I whined, hiding behind false pretenses, "Please stop letting your cats multiply like a hive of pixies on aphrodisiacs?" I implored with more truth to my actual intentions. Things... breeding unchecked; the thought made me all oogily. Squirmy.

HB gave me a withering stare but I countered with the piteous saucer-eyed look of a five-year-old.

"Oh fine. Go on and deny my cats the one joy they have in this life." He conceded, hands in the air.

"Aw, they'll still have _you_." I cooed indulgently, "You are such a joy."

I was trying to be funny, but I don't think anything was going to distract him from the thought of what he'd just agreed to.

"Sorry little guy." HB said gravely as the same tomcat walked nimbly back onto his lap, "You know I can't say no to her."

Well that was a weirdly earned sense of accomplishment.


	4. Sid is Unwisely Given Responsibility

**Sorry this is a long time coming. ****And a little short. ****But I've found some inspiration again, and the next chapter should roll out in a few days.**

**Keep the reviews coming. And on that note, many thanks to Flint and Feather for your reviews (which actually came in as I was typing this up).**

**Also, if there are any grammar errors it's probably due to what time it is. And that I've had a few drinks tonight... Anyway.**

**Enjoy!**

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When Maury told me I'd be taking on some major responsibility today, I didn't have very lofty ideas about what that meant. I wasn't exactly a "stable" fixture here in Newark. Or anywhere. And, in most experiences, stability tends to be a rather crucial component in being dependable, responsible, an all-around swell guy.

Back where I'd come from, I'd had three ferns, a rosebush, some herbs, an experimentally stunted maple tree, two cacti, and an ill-fated hermit crab. Everything died at my hands, except for the crab which I can't speak for with any certainty. I had wanted to let it free-range in my room; however, I found that hermit crabs aren't really known for the tendency to stay in one place. You'd think the name would have put up some red flags. Anyway, one day it became apparent my crab had moved on to greener pastures. Or, another cement-bottomed steel-ribbed quasi-"cozy" square box, in the case of BPRD living quarters.

I have a much nicer, more "standardly appropriate" and livable arrangement here in Jersey. Notably sans-crab though, so this is what I was expecting Maury to thrust upon me.

John T. Myers is not a hermit crab. Actually, as I was being prodded uncomfortably toward him in the Professor's stately study and told I'd be his preliminary handler, I couldn't help but mockingly ask Maury how he'd known I'd always wanted "a cuddly-wuddly puppy".

"Sidney is one of our top special agents, and rather new to this facility herself." The Professor sidestepped my thick inappropriateness with masterful dexterity, "I think you two will get on famously." He added, sounding less sure of that the longer he watched my cheesy grin and innocently batting eyes.

"Just be quiet now, Sid." Maury told me, using the 'I'm still _your _boss' voice. The four of us wandered away. I waved to Abe. He returned a nonchalant flick of the wrist, chewing laboriously on his rotten egg. Before long the Professor had wrapped up the typical synopsis of the Bureau's history and founding, and was handing off a pair of Baby Ruths to Myers, one of which I quickly grabbed away from his limp grasp.

"Hey Clay." I intentionally rhymed in greeting to my fellow agent, stuffed tight into a sports coat and slacks as always.

"Sup Sid." He quipped back in usual custom before addressing Myers, who had the nomadic floating gaze of a man no longer sure of his place in the world. Then, "He saw Abe, I take it?" I nodded, "You told him about _him_?" He motioned behind the giant blast door beside us.

"Red Hot's too good a surprise to spoil with words." I shrugged. Clay sighed and proceeded to insert the massive metal key into its socket with the slightest hesitation.

"He might be a little on edge. The Professor had him grounded. Just give him the candy and try not to stare." Clay advised as Maury wordlessly helped him pull back the immense steel mechanism.

"Who's grounded?" Myers blubbered. With a roll of my eyes, I impatiently pushed my new ward into what would probably be the most terrifying fanboy moment of his life. He looked the type.

"You read those Hellboy comics, right?" I asked quickly. He didn't have time to tell me I was right though. He had seen him.

'Him' of course being my wonderful cherry-red partner, currently made perhaps even more red from being flushed as he lifted his daily reps. Clay was saying stuff to Myers again but I skillfully ignored most of that.

"60 years old, my ass, Clay." I said while heading over to give HB the pilfered Baby Ruth, "For you."

"Ain't you sweet, Sweetness." HB said both in response to the candy and my denial of Clay's 'reverse dog years' silliness, "You are best kind of people."

"I try." Then, at Clay's prompting, Myers handed over his candy as well.

"Only one? Most people know I like _two_." He responded, teeth bared faintly as they clenched down on the stub of a cigar. Maury gave me a steady, heavy-browed stare while Myers sputtered.

"I stole one." I told HB, coolly deflecting the heat of his disapproval off my charge, "Myers here is new and I'm his handler."

"So now I have to share you?" HB asked through a plume of choking smog.

"You've always shared me with Maury." I responded reasonably, following him over to his dresser. I stared at the odd pair we are in the mirror.

"Yeah but Maury knows not to get in my way." He said quietly, with a nod at the aforementioned stone-silent suit. He put down the cigar to trade instead for his spin-grinder; but in true BPRD fashion, he was swiftly interrupted by the alarm.

"That's a big one." I clarified for Myers, a little giddy and bouncing in time to the red alert.

"Stick close to her." HB said with sage slowness right into the gapping face of my charge, "She just _loves_ to shoot things. Let's go." A gigantic meaty arm dropped onto my slim shoulders, steering me away from Myers and the other agents as fast as it could.

They were singing our song.


	5. Sid Wonders About Her Word Choice

**Okie dokie, here's Chapter 5. I like this one quite a bit. It gets a little more serious.**

**Anyway, please feel free to drop me a review. They're more motivational than you know, believe you me.**

**Enjoy!**

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"So why are you leading around the squirt?" HB asked me while we suited up in the back of our transpo. I holstered myself into my system of straps and buckles and belts before answering.

"He's actually your new '_liaison_'." I said, using the proper term with more than a dash of impropriety. Nanny was more like it, "They figured you wouldn't want him, so _I _get to train him until you decide you do."

"Who's 'they'?" He asked me, though less than curious.

"Agent Clay, your father, Manning, and Sid herself." Abe answered succinctly for me, doing that thing he does.

"Thanks, Able." I switched into calling him by what I usually call him, "Basically everyone." I added in HB's direction. Just so he didn't misunderstand.

"It is nice to be on everybody's thoughts." He mused, throwing on his trench.

Minutes later, out little group was stomping down the corridors of some New York City museum. Library they called it? Whatever.

Clay, chief to the indians that were the brigade of agents, was giving the rundown in as important a voice as he could muster. Big monster; security dudes dead; don't know where it is at the moment; time to shoot something. Most of our work was a variation on this theme.

The Professor was actually present when we joined the scouting party, which wasn't particularly typical of him. The monster was apparently supposed to be in the room next to us, according to the intel that just came through. Blue started sensing. Red had an awkward moment with his dad. Myers looked like he might throw up or faint or some ghastly combination of the two. I was picking out some choice ammo. Nothing seemed abnormal... Abnormal for the BPRD, anyway.

"Here." HB said in my ear, a little gruff after the exchange with his father, placing some special rounds in my side jacket pocket, "Little baby versions of what I'm using. Watch your kid, but be careful."

"We can be careful when we're dead." I said indifferently, then quickly muttered something only he would hear: "But don't get dead, Red." His stone hand patted my back good-naturedly but with a massive force nonetheless. And then he was gone through the door.

"Aren't we going too?" Myers asked me as I shoved HB's special bullets into an empty clip.

"He always goes in first. Alone." I said, worry trying to eke its way into my voice, "Whatta guy, right?" I covered.

"He'll be fine. As always." Blue said to me, ever the perceptive one. I smiled for his sake before he started to hit his books and feed HB info over the com.

"Hey Sid, this thing's even uglier than that little dog following you around." HB's voice crackled in my ear. Must've just been my channel because no one else reacted, Myers especially.

"Cute." I said in sarcastic tones, but appreciative for the attempt at levity, "Now pay attention to what you're doing."

"Hey Choirboy." I said in Myers's direction. He stopped staring into space long enough to focus, "Don't go so far away." And just as I gave this advice, a huge shock rocked the door. Guns were unholstered all around us.

"I'm going around the back." I heard Myers say with an unexpected amount of conviction. I followed. It wasn't a terrible idea. The fire-stairs were deceptively quiet; as was HB's radio. I was fretting a little as we launched through the alarmed door and rounded a corner into the alley below where HB should have been. But he was actually there on the ground, getting his flesh arm gnawed on by what I assumed was the escaped creature.

"It is a lot uglier than you." Was my suddenly brain-dead response to the scene. Myers recovered fast and immediately started firing. I could only get off one shot to the thing's left eye before HB went into his irrational "I'm the hero, I don't need your help" mode.

"Sid, why'd you bring the kid here?" He was yelling, probably trying not to think about the physical pain he must be in.

"Oh shut up, Red." I said dismissively because I knew he didn't mean to be mean. Of course, in the split second I wasn't watching it, the thing had regenerated like the fucking Wolverine. It had jumped to higher ground, but stupidly made itself a better target. I loaded up HB's special kill-alls and snapped off the entire clip. The last bullet to strike came from the Samaritan; bright green gloop spilled from the entry wound as the monster fell over the edge of the wall.

"Tracking bullet. Smart man." I said a little breathlessly as we climbed over it ourselves, Myers right behind.

"Hey Choirboy, you're on crowd control." I shouted hurriedly when I noticed that we were headed right for a street fair. I just assumed he would know I meant for him to keep the sheep away from the runaway train that was my partner. The trouble only really happened when we were crossing the road and Myers got swiped by an SUV, spinning to the asphalt in a heap. I couldn't pull him up fast enough. But thank the maker for HB and that glorious stone arm of his.

"Red means _stop_." He somehow had the time to be clever before slamming down on the van to send it into a perfect flip over us. He then grabbed me up and, once he was sure traffic was stopped, told Myers to stay there.

"Admit it, you just can't help but get me alone." I said with a shaky but teasing tone.

"I just don't need you-" He grunted momentarily as he pushed aside a metal grate stained with the tracking material, "-trying to protect your kid when you should just be shooting those pistols."

"Yeah yeah. The veritable one-trick pony." I said flippantly as we climbed down into what would either be a sewer or the subway.

We were in luck, it was the subway. Well, we were in luck until the next train rolled by. Which of course was right away.

HB quickly shoved me against the cold cement wall with no more than, "Suck it in, Sweetness." He was fairly resilient and would get around it some other way. My ammo rattled inside my pockets, and my beloved guns made terrible jostling noises as the cars roared by; but it was gone and passed in a matter of moments. I found HB farther up the track, flat on his back.

"Suck it up, Red Hot." I said, trying to keep up the banter as he noticed his scorched horns, "You file them all the time anyway". I wanted to help pull him up, but "Sammy" was on top of us before I could even give it a go.

One of them pushed me away from the tussle right away, and I found myself with only minor bruising from the force; I pulled out my favored gun even though I knew it would be hard to aim. Sammy slobbering up HB's face with something like mucus was my chance. I took a quick shot at its spine to distract it long enough for HB to grab the electrified third rail and singe the thing to oblivion.

"I'm fireproof, you're not." He said after standing, coolly lighting a cigar off his flaming fingers, "And neither are you, so watch your step."

"Fireproof and now thankfully cleaned of that slime." I ignored his advice and walked over.

"Hurts to be beautiful, doesn't it." He said casually, looking down at me as I dabbed a cottonball at the cut on his forehead. I had the tiniest of first aid kits in one of my numerous jacket pockets. And now also the tiniest of blushes gracing my scraped cheeks.

"Hey Myers." HB said over the com, surprisingly allowing me to continue patching him up, "How's the arm?"

Myers, though sounding a little frazzled, said he was fine. Then, "Where are you?"

"With your mother hen of a handler." He said. I still continued to fix him up though, stubbornly. "You think you can make it back all right without her pretty head to guide you? Sid and I are going out to celebrate."

Myers started to make a flustered appeal for us to come back or to at least take him along, but HB and I turned off our locators right on cue.

I was pretty thrilled to get away. HB swiped a six-pack from an unwitting costumed couple and we cracked two open immediately. I was about to ask where to, when I realized where we were and where this alley would eventually lead us. Stopping in my tracks, HB turned to face me with the best look of feigned innocence that handsome face can put on.

"Of course, I should have assumed the 'Sid and I' really meant 'you', and 'going out to celebrate' meant 'going to moon over Liz Sherman, so Sid can just go get white-girl-wasted at some skeezy bar by herself.'" I wasn't even going to try to hide the accusing tone from my obvious accusation. And HB wasn't able to stop from looking guilty, maybe even slightly ashamed, because I was right.

"It doesn't have to be a skeezy bar." He unsuccessfully tried to make me smile, "You aren't going to tell Myers, are you Sid?" He had either the gall, the balls, or the sheer stupidity to ask me.

"No, Red, I'm not." I answered, a little quiet now, "Because you're my friend. I'm just not sure I'm yours."

And as I stalked off away from the dumb red monkey, I couldn't be sure about the implications of the loaded word "yours".


End file.
